


Resentment

by lyricalsoul



Series: Hiatus [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Granada 'verse - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson wakes, Lestrade bristles, Holmes tries to explain. An unexpected visitor makes it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resentment

When I next open my eyes, I find myself in the spare bed of my surgery. The room is dimly lit, but I can make out Lestrade sprawled in an armchair near the door, and Holmes standing at the window, deep in thought. I shift restlessly, and groan at the pain this causes.

Holmes whirls toward me, and is at my side in an instant. "Watson-"

"John-" Lestrade is on his feet and at my side before Holmes can finish his sentence.

"What happened?" I manage to croak out, my eyes never leaving Holmes. "Can it really be you, Holmes? How can it be? How did you climb out of that awful abyss? Am I dreaming?"

"You are not dreaming, Watson." Holmes holds a flask to my lips. "Drink."

Brandy trickles out against my lips, and I swallow slowly. The steady burn of the liquid does much to clear my head, and I push at his hand. "Enough. What happened?"

"Dr. Jackson," Lestrade says, "seems to think you've had an attack of some sort." He gives Holmes a scorching look. "Though he does not think it is your heart, I beg to differ."

"Though I am extremely grateful for the update on my condition, I am well aware that I did not have heart failure." I look at Holmes expectantly. "My question was to Holmes."

"I do wish you would stop glaring at me, Lestrade." Holmes steps away from the bed and moves back to the window.

"You're fortunate that glaring is all I'm doing," Lestrade responds angrily.

Holmes turns to face him, a small smile on his face. "If you've something to say, please refrain from sighing and speak your mind."

"There's plenty to say, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade sounds as angry as I've ever heard him. "But it isn't my place to say it."

"Gentlemen," I cut in pointedly. "If you don't mind...?"

"The shock was a bit much for you, I'm certain." Holmes moves back to my side. "I sincerely apologize, Watson."

"And what purpose does apology serve?" Lestrade asks snidely. "He thought you dead!"

"The, ah, misconception seems to have run rampant throughout the country." Holmes's tone is dry, but I alone know him well enough to hear the uncertainty in his voice, even after all this time apart. "Thanks to your lovely account, dear Watson."

"I..." I swallow hard and try to stem the tide of bitterness that wells in my throat. "Holmes..."

He turns to face me then, and his face is deathly pale. "Watson, I..." He stops, clears his throat, and continues, "John, I know that the past three years have been painful-"

"You know nothing of his pain, Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade hisses, his face reddening with his rising ire. "And even if you did have an inkling, you fancy to stroll back in his life without as though nothing has happened? You've incredible nerve."

"You've incredible nerve saying such to me," Holmes replies coldly. "This is between Watson and I. Perhaps you should take your leave, Inspector."

"Whatever you say to him will be said in front of me!" Lestrade's dark eyes flash, and I fear Holmes is about to come to the realization that Lestrade, too, has hidden depths. "Whatever rapport you had, whatever bond you had is gone. He was devastated, broken. His love for you died three years ago."

"And I'm certain you were on hand to give it a proper burial, weren't you?" Holmes blithely lights a cigarette. "Very kind of you, Lestrade."

"John concerns me. You, on the other hand, do not. Perhaps you'd like to leave him another note, Mr. Holmes? Let him search for you, pine for you, nearly die for you, hmm?" He laughs derisively. "A cold, calculating machine such as you can hardly be affected by such things. You should go back to wherever it is you've been all these years and leave John Watson alone. He is doing much better now."

"Gustave..." I give him a beseeching look. "Please."

"Oh, no," Holmes says angrily, "Let him speak. I have no doubt that you were suffering, Watson. But I am glad that you had such a good friend to help... ease your sorrows." Holmes' smile is sardonic and his tone droll, which does not bode well for anyone. "I had no idea you had an affinity for the gents, Gustave. I should have deduced such from the -oomph!"

I bolt upright just as Lestrade's fist makes contact with Holmes' midsection. "Gustave! That will not solve anything."

"Makes me feel better." Lestrade picks up Holmes cigarette and stubs it out on the bedpost. "I'll not stand here and let him act as though he can snap his fingers at you, and the faithful biographer will once again follow him into the breach."

Though I understand his anger, Lestrade's words prick at me. "You go too far, Gustave. I can speak for myself."

"If I thought it would do any good, I'd report you to your superiors for assault," Holmes says, hauling himself from the floor, "but I am certain I have provoked you to wrath." He makes a great show of dusting off his clothing. "I would like to speak to you, Watson. Without the presence of your besotted watchdog."

Lestrade's hands are balling into fists again, and he takes a step toward Holmes. "Besotted? You have no idea what I feel for John. Or what he feels for me. You lost that right, you arrogant fool. So don't think you can come here and make light of my feelings for him when you discarded him like an old shirt."

"Do not be so arrogant to assume that I shall let you strike me a third time without a solid thrashing, Lestrade." Holmes' tone is icy. "I was able to dispatch Moriarty to the depths of the falls through my thorough knowledge of baritsu. I could do far worse to you."

"There will be no more fighting," I declare angrily before Lestrade can react. "It will solve nothing, and it's making my head ache fiercely." I turn to Holmes. "I want to hear the whole story, and I want Lestrade to be on hand."

"So that is the state of affairs, then?" Holmes asks. I see a flash of sadness in his eyes, but it is so fleeting, that I am almost certain that I imagined it. "Perhaps it is for the best."

"You, of all people, should know the dangers of making assumptions, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade says. "But, pray, tell us your remarkable story. I cannot wait to hear it!"

"Lestrade..." I say in warning.

"Let him mock, Watson," Holmes returns. "It is no more than I deserve." He sits down in the chair next to the bed. "You have to understand, Watson, that I had good reason for doing what I did."

"There is no possible way you can convince of that, Holmes." I fold my arms across my chest and give him a hard look. "My wife died, and I hardly cared. I was blinded by my grief for you."

"I..." He clears his throat. "Mycroft told me of your wife's death, and I-"

"Your brother knew?" I toss the coverlet aside, and leap from the bed. I am torn between tears and going after the elder Holmes to beat him senseless. "He made as though... he told me...! The blackguard! That insufferable bastard!"

"I assure you, Dr. Watson," comes Mycroft's booming voice from the doorway, "that my parents were married when I was born."

"You!" I launch myself at him, pummeling him with my fists. "Damn you! Damn you to hell! You unscrupulous ass!"

"Watson, stop!" Holmes grabs me about the waist, and drags me to the other side of the room. "This will not help matters."

"Dear lord," Mycroft pants. "I most certainly did not expect to be met with such violence!"

"Obtuseness must run in the family," Lestrade mutters, and helps Mycroft into a chair. "Brandy, perhaps?"

"Please," Mycroft replies, dabbing at his split lip with a handkerchief. "I assumed Sherlock would have told his tale by now, but from the size of the lump on your jaw, brother, you haven't gotten that far."

"Indeed not," Holmes say, rubbing his jaw absently. "Since we're all present, and time is of the essence, perhaps now would be a good time to relate the tale of my... disappearance, and how the whole affair came about." He looks at me, then at Lestrade. "If I have your word that you will refrain from physical violence until the end of my tale...?"

"You have my word that I will not strike you again," Lestrade say solemnly, handing Mycroft the flask of brandy.

"No, Holmes," I say. "I am as angry and dismayed as I have ever been. I will not promise that my reaction to whatever it is you have to say will not be violent. You and your brother," I spit the word out with vehemence, "are lucky I do not shoot you both and be done with it."

"I know that my actions have hurt you deeply, Watson," Holmes says, his voice filled with emotion, "but set aside your pain, and hear what I have to say. Please."

I sit down on the settee next to Lestrade and nod. "Tell your tale."


End file.
